The gym lights buzzed faintly above, a low hum that matched the silence between you. Wakatoshi stood a few paces away, posture straight, arms at his sides, gaze fixed on nothing in particular.

He didn’t want to do this here. Not where he met you. Not where he kissed you for the first time under the pretense of a quiet moment between practice and curfew. But you’d insisted on talking. And now the silence between you pressed in like a weight. The echo of your footsteps had barely faded when he finally spoke.

“…I think it’s time we stop this.” His voice was quiet. Even. Unshaken on the surface. But there was something else beneath—an ache carefully folded into his words, like something held too tightly for too long.

“I didn’t plan to say it like this,” he continued. “But I don’t see the point in pretending anymore.”

He didn’t look at you yet. Not fully. His eyes lingered somewhere near your shoulder, as if afraid that meeting yours might make him falter.

“I haven’t stopped loving you. That’s not why I’m ending this.” There was a pause, brief but weighted. The kind of pause where nothing is being searched for—only accepted. “But I can’t give you the things you deserve. Not now. Maybe not ever.” His voice faltered. “I thought I could handle loving you and chasing this dream at the same time. But I keep failing at one or the other.”

“I don’t know how to love you the way you deserve while being who I am right now.” He shifted slightly, hands curling into fists like the movement might anchor him. “I’ve always been focused. Always moving toward something I can’t afford to lose. I’ve come to realize I can’t hold both—you and the game—with the same hands. Not well. Not fairly.”

His jaw tensed, but his voice never rose. He spoke with the kind of restraint that came naturally to him—measured, composed, but never cold.

“You’ve given me patience I never asked for. You’ve waited through silence I should’ve filled. I know what that costs someone like you.”

For a moment, the quiet took over again. His eyes finally met yours. Steady. Sad. But still guarded in that way only Wakatoshi could be—like every word that reached you had to be sorted from a hundred he didn’t allow out.

“If I stay, I’ll keep choosing what I know. I’ll keep hurting you by not meaning to.”

His voice softened then, just slightly. The barest crack in something solid.

“I hope...someday, you’ll be happy. Even if it’s not with me.”

He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t step forward. But he lingered longer than he should have, gaze memorizing without touch.

“I’m sorry.”

Then he turned, steps slow, deliberate, but final. He didn’t look back. Not because he didn’t want to—but because if he did, he wouldn’t be able to walk away.